


Feast

by IrisCalasse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Food Sex, Nipple Licking, Samhain, Staged Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCalasse/pseuds/IrisCalasse
Summary: On Samhain, the sidhe open to the mortal realm. On the eve of battle, they come together: on one hand, the Morrigan, guardian of the people, her dark hair curling wild like an explosion of vines to frame her hazelnut eyes; on the other, the Dagda, lord of the seasons, tall as a hawthorn tree, his pale hair and eyes shining like moonlight. In the deep gloaming of the autumn harvest moon, the twain become one in a rhythm as old as time.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21
Collections: Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest





	Feast

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PSpiceFicFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PSpiceFicFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Samhain - Apple cider
> 
> Not beta'd.

On Samhain, the _sidhe_ open to the mortal realm. On the eve of battle, they come together: on one hand, the Morrigan, guardian of the people, her dark hair curling wild like an explosion of vines to frame her hazelnut eyes; on the other, the Dagda, lord of the seasons, tall as a hawthorn tree, his pale hair and eyes shining like moonlight. In the deep gloaming of the autumn harvest moon, the twain become one in a rhythm as old as time.

* * *

Hermione Granger is smiling as she peels away the Morrigan’s crow-feather costume, heart still full of the audience’s appreciative applause. Year after year, it’s the same reenactment, but she never tires of it. She reaches for an apple from the pile of fruit on the refreshment stand, glances at her co-star at his dressing-table, and picks up another globe. Hers is red, his is green - just like things have always been. “Hey, catch,” she says, and tosses the apple across the room.

  
Draco Malfoy, who has been carefully dabbing the edges of his fake beard with spirit gum remover, turns at the sound of her voice. There is movement coming towards him, and he quickly shoots out a hand and captures the small, flying object. For a moment he is surprised at its weight; there are times when he still expects a small, silver- winged, golden ball. “Nice catch,” his on-stage partner says, and he smiles at her. “Seeker skills,” he remarks, easily falling into the brag.

  
“Only when Harry’s not around,” is the rejoinder.

  
The blond puts an overly-dramatic hand to his forehead, tilting his head back with a theatrical groan. “Forsooth, you wound me,” he sighs, then quickly straightens up and throws the brunette an extravagant wink. “How do you plan to compensate me for such a grave injury?”

  
Hermione laughs, used to his clowning. “I don’t know, Draco.”

  
He flashes a charming grin at her, teeth perfectly even and pearly-white. “Take me to dinner.”

  
“Wow, that’s presumptuous of you,” his partner says. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and he finds himself remembering the texture of that cloud, heavy and fragrant against his face in the darkness of their staged boudoir. She teases him, “And why am _I_ the one to wine and dine you, good sir?”

  
He gasps, ripping his fake beard off his jaw. The grimace he shoots at her is actually one of pain, but he pretends it’s one of outrage. “It’s the age of equality, woman. Also, I am clearly the injured party here. Dinner is the least you could do.”

  
She raises an elegant eyebrow at him, obviously not impressed by his acting. “Hmm-mmm.” She takes a bite of her apple, her lips hardly any less vivid than the fruit’s crisp skin; Draco finds himself swallowing when she does. She notices it, too. The eyebrow goes down, and her lips stretch into a smile that is best described as feral. “Just dinner, then? Alright.”

  
Draco turns back to his mirror and finishes the removal of his stage makeup. He hopes that the thudding of his heart can’t be heard in the silence of the tiny backstage dressing room. By the time he stands up, Hermione is gone. Her half-eaten apple sits on her table, a note tucked under it: _My place, 7. Password’s “pumpkin spice.”_

  
His heart speeds up as he reads the words.

* * *

Draco turns up at Hermione’s door at two to seven, dressed in impeccably-pressed slacks and a crisp button-down shirt. Muggle clothes, but he’s trying to impress. It’s not the first time he’d flirted with Hermione, but it was the first time Hermione has actually agreed to have him over. For dinner, of course. Just dinner. Dinner on this hallowed eve, the night of the dead. Nothing romantic. Nothing sexual.

  
He imagines her in her Morrigan costume, the feathers on her crow wings brushing against the skin of his arms as she slides down his abdomen and strokes his Dagda’s staff.

  
No, nothing sexual there, not at all.

  
He knocks. There is a small beeping noise, and a tiny artificial voice says, “Password?”

  
He swallows. Here goes nothing. “Pumpkin spice,” he says.  
  
  
“Enter,” the voice tells him, and the door swings open. He almost thanks the unseen house-elf before he remembers that this is Hermione Granger’s house -- she, of all people, would never have a house-elf. Wherever the voice came from and whatever opened the door, it wouldn’t be an elf. Probably some Muggle thing he would never understand, but then again, this was Hermione; it could very well be some obscure spell too difficult for ninety-five percent of the populace of Wizarding Britain. The thought of asking Hermione, and having her go full Professor mode on him, was almost as good an image as the thought of her as the Morrigan, writhing on top of him in their ritual dance of joining.  
  
  
 _Just dinner, Draco,_ he reminds himself fiercely as he makes his way through the entrance vestibule of the small flat. “Hermione?” he calls, looking for his host.

  
“In the kitchen,” he hears her call out. “I’m just finishing dinner -- come in.”

  
He follows her voice down a short hallway and into a decently-sized room. It is decked in wreaths of orange and red leaves; hazelnuts and candied apples are interspersed with sticks of cinnamon, and the atmosphere is redolent with the scent of warm, freshly-baked bread. Here and there, tiny pumpkins carved into lanterns house flickering white candles, creating tiny flickering islands that smell of patchouli. Draco takes none of this in, however. His eyes are arrested by the sight of Hermione, lying on her side on the table.   
  
  
Her hair is elaborately done up and she is naked. Her caramel skin seems to take the warmth of candlelight. Her knees are bent slightly; a strategically-placed hand-towel straddles the generous curve of her hip, leading the eye to a horn-of-plenty that juts out from the space in the juncture of her legs, spilling its bounty of fruit across the curve of her smooth thigh. A steaming cottage pie rests in the hollow of her knee, a nearby gravy-boat kept in place by the slope of one beautiful foot. In front of the other leg is a ceramic dish of braised pheasant. One arm is draped over her belly, fingers just touching a platter of roasted venison. Her other arm keeps her torso propped up. There is a woven basket of freshly-baked baguettes tucked into the crook of her supporting elbow, but her hand is cupping a large tureen of pumpkin-and-bacon soup. Her breasts are draped with tarragon, rosemary, and cloves. There is a flower-like pattern painted onto her areolas in white, but the nipples themselves are dyed red, like miniature apples, and Draco finds himself wondering what they would taste like.

  
“Dinner is served,” her voice beckons him, sultry and sinful.

  
Draco stands motionless, eyeing the bounty in front of him. Hermione smiles at his stillness; she knows what kind of effect she has on him. They’ve been pantomiming the act of lovemaking for years, and the silence of Draco’s lips is all too easily belied by the honesty of other parts of his body. After all this time, too, she knows what to do, to make him move. “My lord husband the Dagda,” she croons a line from their tableau, “come and feast.”

  
Habit overcoming hesitation, Draco steps closer to the table. “My lady wife the Morrigan,” he replies, easily slipping into the persona of the Lord of the Seasons, “thou bid, and I obey.” He reaches out a hand to the supine goddess in front of him and falls out of character again. “To tell the truth, though, I don’t know where to begin.”   
  
  
Hermione laughs, breaking the tension. “It’s dinner, Draco. Do the soup course first. And hurry up, my hand’s beginning to cramp.”

  
“Well, nobody told you to pose like this, Granger,” Draco chides, a smirk forming on his lips. 

  
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, _Malfoy_ ,” Hermione snarks back.

  
“Wasn’t going to,” Draco admits. He reaches for a baguette, tears it in half, and dips the broken end into the pumpkin soup. He lifts the morsel to Hermione’s lips. “Ladies first.”   
  
  
She rolls her eyes but takes a bite. Draco follows suit, making sure to place his mouth over the part of the bread that Hermione’s mouth has graced beforehand. He continues to feed her in this way for a while, until he spots a moist crumb at the corner of Hermione’s mouth. Distracted, Draco gently thumbs it, then sticks his thumb into his mouth and sucks it off. “Delicious,” he whispers, grey eyes darkening as he looks at Hermione. Her eyes lower and she bites her lips invitingly. Draco leans closer, aiming for a kiss.

  
She puts a hand on his chest and strokes up to his collarbone. Draco shudders at the gentle touch. “Eat the venison next,” Hermione urges. Her voice is lower and huskier than it had been earlier. He finds himself unable to refuse. He wanders down the banquet of her body until he reaches the venison. He cuts a slice and the warm juices spill out of the hot meat. 

  
Draco takes a piece onto his fork and serves the juicy tidbit to Hermione. She moans at the flavor, and the sound travels straight to Draco’s groin. “Well, damn,” he mutters. He looks back at the full dinner spread, then at Hermione’s bare flesh.   
  
  
Nobody had ever had to tell Draco that he needed to get his priorities straight.   
  
  
“Sorry, love, but let’s eat dinner later,” he whispers in Hermione’s ear, as he starts whisking the food off of her and levitating them all to the sideboard. He expects her to pout; she’s obviously put a lot of effort into the creation and presentation of the meal. But, smart witch that she is, surely she knows what kind of effect she has on him?

  
It’s a bit of a surprise when Hermione lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. I was worried you might be as slow off the bat here as you were in asking me out. I really hoped _you'd_ invite me over to _yours_ , before I ended up inviting you to _mine_.” Her upper body no longer has things balanced on it, so she sits up and stretches inconspicuously. Picking up her wand from where she tucked it, just behind the plate of venison, she helps him magic everything away. She lets out a light laugh. “I must admit, the idea of food play was a lot sexier in my head. Having you spill gravy on my leg, licking that off...”

  
Draco, who had been rather dumbfounded by her earlier admission, is distracted by the erotic image. He grins at her. “It was plenty sexy,” he says. “And the mise-en-scene was on point.”

  
“Mmm,” Hermione replies. “What was your favorite part?”

  
The table is clear now, its only decoration the naked Hermione sitting on top with her legs bent. Draco, still fully clothed, places his large hands on Hermione’s hips and pulls her to the edge of the table, so that her legs fall over the edge, and he steps into the bracket that they make. “These,” he says, carefully hefting one of Hermione’s breasts and staring at it with fascination.

  
Hermione giggles. “I should have known you’d go for the dessert.”   
  
  
“What can I say? Life is short, eat dessert first,” Draco opines, bending his neck to have a taste. His tongue slides gingerly over the white patterns adorning the tanned skin. They taste of almond and some sort of spice, maybe nutmeg? Another familiar flavor hits the side of his tongue and he curls it around her nipple, adding light suction as he savors the ruby-tinted applesauce. Hermione keens and pulls his head closer. He obliges and takes tiny nibbles of her areola before opening his mouth wide and sweeping his teeth lightly over as much of her breast as he could take. He ends up back at her nipple and sucks hard enough to make her gasp, then switches his oral attentions to her other breast. All the while, his hands knead at the soft round flesh of her ass, and she tugs at his hair just painfully enough to be pleasant.

  
“Best dessert ever,” Draco says, once he has cleaned off Hermione’s breasts. Their chests are heaving and their skins are flushed. He gazes warmly at his on-stage wife, hoping that she has plans beyond this point. Plans that involve him getting out of his clothes, and maybe reenacting the Morrigan and Dagda ritual that they perform, year after year, for the benefit of the townsfolk; but this time for real.

  
She smiles mischievously at him, her eyes sparkling. “Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”   
  
  
What. Draco blinks, then remembers. “Oh yeah! I brought a bottle of apple cider as a hostess gift…”

  
He pulls out the bottle from his coat pocket, unable to resist a dramatic flourish. Hermione laughs as she claps her hands. Draco is about to conjure a pair of tankards for the cider when Hermione shakes her head and reaches out a hand. Draco hands her the bottle, half in confusion and half in hope.

  
“I can imagine better uses for this cider than just sculling it from a pint glass, my Lord husband,” she says, and Draco’s eyes light up. He is even more delighted by her next words. “However -- you’re overdressed for the occasion.”

* * *

  
  
On Samhain, the _sidhe_ open to the mortal realm. On the eve of battle, they come together: on one hand, the Morrigan, guardian of the people, her dark hair curling wild like an explosion of vines to frame her hazelnut eyes; on the other, the Dagda, lord of the seasons, tall as a hawthorn tree, his pale hair and eyes shining like moonlight. In the deep gloaming of the autumn harvest moon, the twain become one in a rhythm as old as time.


End file.
